The Twin Sun - The Legacies and Stories of Luke Skywalker
by tatooineknights
Summary: This is a collection of short little moments in the life of Luke Skywalker, starting from his small beginnings on Tatooine and ranging anywhere from Yavin, to outside adventures, to Dagobah, to Bespin, to Endor, to Ahch-To, and to the many places and individuals in between them all. Here are the small and little known scenes that shaped and created the boy whom would eventually bec
1. The Promise of Rebellion

"Be back before sunset, Luke."

The wise words of Aunt Beru rattled around inside his head as he dashed around sand and dirt, carefully combing the earth with his boots to avoid gravel and rock, sprinting with as much enthusiasm a fifteen year-old could muster on a desert planet. The teenager had to be quick; after all, even though the older Biggs Darklighter appreciated his companionship and idealism, there was always the constant worry that his friend would someday move on to grander and better days outside of Tatooine.

After all, he was much older at nineteen. If it weren't for him, Biggs probably would have already signed up for the Imperial Academy and would have passed with flying colors. Luke knew how good of a pilot he was – slightly better than himself, he acknowledged, though he presumed with time he could surpass him. The teenager sprinted out into vast wastes as quickly as he could, just outside of the settlement that danger posed a risk but close enough that their cries could still be heard. Luke Skywalker stopped in his tracks as he finally made it to the site that they both promised to meet at.

"You always gotta make this so hard, Biggs," complained Luke as he stared up at the vast rock before him; more mountain than boulder, with impossible curves and bumps. The young man looked to the lack of muscles in his arms and sighed, hiking himself up and beginning his climb. "Of all the possible places," Luke hissed, carefully watching his footing as he hopped from step to step, his arms holding onto whatever rock he could grab as he continued to hoist himself upward.

The final ascent proved to be the most difficult. There was barely half a meter left between him and the top of the massive boulder, but his arms began to ache, his legs grown weary from fatigue. "Blast it, Biggs," yelled out Luke, as he struggled to climb up. Not only were his muscles betraying him but his body was plagued by an obscene amount of sweat, ruining his grip. "Help me," he said, sighing at his own failure.

"Loud as ever, Skywalker," Biggs said as he inched out from the curve of the cliff, inching himself downward as he looked to his stuck friend. He smiled at the teenager and lowered his hand, offering him some much needed help. The boy outstretched his arm with all his weight and reached out to him. Biggs was able to lift Luke up quickly to the top of the cliff with great ease. "You made it, Luke. You sure took your time getting here. I was beginning to worry that you wouldn't show – it isn't that far from sunset now. If you were another minute late, I probably would have hopped on down and made it back home."

"You know I wouldn't miss one of your amazing stories," Luke wheezed and huffed, recollecting himself as he plopped down against the side of the rock. It was slightly embarrassing (not to mention frustrating) at how exerted he was from the climb, in comparison to the relaxed ease his friend showed, while thousands of beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He combed back his hair with his left hand, mixing the wetness with his bangs.

"They're hardly stories," Biggs laughed before sitting down next to Luke. The two men sat there, totally still under the mixture of stars and suns, in wonder of the galaxy before them. "Stories are what you tell around the campfire with all your friends, family, and acquaintances, with a good snack nearby; what I tell you every night is top secret, dangerous and incriminating information, stuff that would send an entire base of Star Destroyers and Imperial Stormtroopers down on your neck."

"Well, with the two of us, I bet we could take on anything," Luke cockily stated, rocking his neck back and combing his fingers through his scalp one last time. "You really don't have to be so secretive. I doubt we really know something that would make the Empire that upset. I'm all for these hiding spots but I think you might be asking for too much of me with this thing."

"Well, it is no wonder why you got drained so easily," wrapping his arm around Luke's neck and using his free hand to tussle with Luke's soaked hair, mucking it around violently. The fifteen year-old resisted the attack, struggling underneath the weight of Biggs's arm, feet kicking in the air as he attempted to shrug out from his grasp. "I don't know why you don't let anyone cut that mop of a head of yours, Skywalker, it is gonna wear you down under the heat of these blasted suns."

"Maybe it is all the more reason for me to get out of this rock," Luke squeaked back as he slung himself out from his friend, his tender voice cracking from the brashness of his tone. He blushed as he looked down, suddenly painfully aware of how young he still was, as well the embarrassment of his own late change. Biggs looked at him, there, not as a friend to a friend; instead, he had the concerned gaze of a man looking down on a problematic child. "You know I don't belong here, Biggs."

"Maybe not – but what about your aunt and uncle? You're not just going to leave them, are you?"

"Of course not," he hushed back instantly, his foot kicking the dust of the rock. "I'd never leave them – at least, not without their approval. They need me; but once they have everything taken care of with the farm, once they have the help they need, we are gonna get off this planet, together. Whether that means we smuggle ourselves off onto some freighter, or joining the Imperial Academy, or even finding ourselves at the hands of Rebel sympathizers."

"Quiet, Luke!"

The hand of friend now covered Luke's mouth, his friend looking around carefully to make sure there wasn't anyone eavesdropping below or around them. "You speak too damn loud," Biggs said sternly, uncupping Luke's lips and staring back at him unamused, his arms crossed. "We aren't going to go anywhere if you don't learn to be quiet. I know this hunk of rock doesn't seem that important to Imperials but they have spies everywhere. Everywhere, Luke, from what I've been told."

"I can be quiet," Luke urged, kneeling down and grinning up at Biggs. "Trust me."

A small window of silence fell between the two young men, before Biggs finally broke his stern older brother-like routine and cracked a smile back to young Skywalker. "You know I trust you," Biggs said with gleaming pride, walking over to the edge of the large rock, looking out to the sky ahead. "There probably isn't anyone I trust more on this planet than you. You're like a younger brother to me, kid. That is part of the reason we have to be careful – I don't want anything to happen to you or our families. We have a lot of options to get off this place; the Imperial Academy looks like the best bet right now. "

"Yeah, but I'm still not old enough," pouted Luke, dejectedly walking towards his friend before sitting down on the edge of the cliff, his legs hanging over the distance.

"I'll wait for you," Biggs said, sitting down next to him, his arm slapping his back tenderly. "I know that is a hard promise for you but I'll wait until you're of age too, Luke. That way you won't have to suffer through Tatooine all by yourself. But I mean it when I say you're of age – if your Uncle is still telling you what to do by then, when I'll nearly be in my mid-twenties, then you're going to have to go into the Academy on your own and find me later."

Skywalker smiled at the promise but also lightly gulped – he knew Uncle Owen was going to hold onto him for as long as he could. Though Luke couldn't blame him for that – he was practically his son and the overprotectiveness made sense, no matter how unfortunate it was. Hopefully, by then, he would relent. "Then I'll hold you to that promise," he nodded, the bright light of the suns ahead of him were slowly being adorned by grey clouds and dark colored skies.

"It is almost sunset."

"Yeah," Luke said. "And I'm quiet, right? So tell me what you heard before I have to go home."

Biggs laughed and nodded, winking at his friend as the rays slowly began to disappear before them, slipping back into the sky for the night. The younger boy felt guilty knowing that he was likely going to be out well-past the time his Aunt Beru asked – but the stories that his friend told, they were well worth the consequences, as the thirst and his promise for adventure began to be filled.


	2. Training Stick

Chores were done and the working day had finished. With the last few twists and turns of his wrist, the young man skipped off and away from the mechanical outpost, reaching into his landspeeder for the great weapon that was worthy of the Skywalker name. "Here we go," whispered the youth excitedly, bouncing a distance away from his ship. "Now the real fun can begin."

The blistering sun baked the tanned skin of a seventeen year-old farmer, his tunic bunched carelessly in a ball in the desert nearby, sweat glistening from his brow as he imagined a great battle before him. There is no one truly around him – not for a good mile or so, at least – but his work is done, which means his mind can take over for that short period of total freedom.

In his left hand, the young man clings to his great weapon: a large wooden stick. To the average observer, he probably looked a fool as he dashed and sliced into the wind, twirling and dancing with the current; that didn't bother young Luke though – while he was careful to be as cool as possible around his best friend, Biggs, there wasn't much room for someone nicknamed "Wormie" by the average peer to get anymore foolish. "Try this," he hissed, bringing down his pretend weapon upon empty space.

"You're too old to be playing make-believe," his uncle warned him previously, frustration brewing as he began pushing back his chores in favor of the great battles that spawned in his ever-flowing head. Luke was quick to change his habits as he saw the stern glimmer in Owen's eye, instead opting to finish his work ahead of schedule, so he could have his own time for himself. This meant waking up to the rise of the suns, which was a pain in itself, but nothing was more important to Skywalker than this.

For in the mind of a young man, that wooden stick was an enchanted sword, a great weapon that would bring upon peace and order to the surrounding galaxy. In his head, he pretended that this was once the sword of a great man that would have been his father: a desperate inheritance that, in this world, he could so proudly claim as his own. The men he faced were every changing – sometimes, they were the remnants of an Imperial squadron tasked with taking out a local village. Other times, they were pillaging sandpeople that came for his family. Most of them, however, were just faceless villains that existed simply so Luke could fight.

"This is my home and you are not welcome here," Luke warned these pretend intruders, sliding his boots across the sandy floor, cutting upward upon his enemy, spinning outward in a circle with his sword. There was a bit of irony, there; while the real Luke was a young adventurer longing and desperate to leave this forsaken planet, this imaginary Luke was a great warrior that was a proud guardian to everything that the planet stood for.

The boy paused as he collected his breath, dropping the weapon in his hand, as the reality of the painful rays blistering onto his bare chest began to set in. Luke wiped the sweat off of his torso as he reached for the canteen of water clasped to his belt, gargling down his parched and aching throat. It was only then that Skywalker noticed a strange sensation around him – as if he were being watched. He turned and looked around the wide expanse, his heart and stomach sinking as he noticed an approaching figure just right around his landspeeder.

He instinctively picked up his stick – crude or not, it worked as a suitable weapon – as he was unable to tell from the brown robes if they belonged to a citizen or a dangerous sandperson. One could never be too careful when out this far from civilization; Uncle Owen did a masterful job instilling some fear into that eager brain of his by constant reminders of what happened to his grandmother out there.

The person inched forward, only two meters or so away from him, before stopping suddenly. This robed individual brought both of his hands together into a slow clap, which quickly assuaged the young Skywalker's fears. "You have good form for being self-taught," bellowed out the person, whom took off his hood to reveal the wise and pensive face of old Ben Kenobi. Luke smiled at the mysterious man; though he did not know him well, there was a gentleness and understanding that was palpable whenever he happened to be rummaging around. The youth felt as if he could truly be himself around the strange man – which was probably why his uncle disliked him so much.

"Would you mind an old hermit giving you some sparring pointers?"

"Sure," Luke eagerly said. "Definitely – I, uh, only have this stick though, so-"

"That won't be any trouble," Ben laughed heartily, pulling out an expertly crafted club from his robe that the young man could only assume was doubled as a walking stick. "You never know what kind of trouble you might run into when you are out on your own in the wastes, like me. You might encounter one of the sandpeople, a dangerous pack of creatures, or even an unruly merchant at the market. Now then, let's see what you can do with that stick of yours."

"I'll go easy on you," Luke accidentally let out as he studied the seemingly feeble old man, not quite meaning for it to be as arrogant as it sounded. The old man smiled at the remark, nodded, and allowed for the youth to make the first strike. Luke swiped hard at the club from a rightward angle, intending to twist the weapon out of Ben's hand. He pushed his weight onto the club but was surprised at how quickly it pushed towards his wishes – a dumbfounded glaze taking over Luke as he saw the weapon push down quickly against his own, thrusting at the back of his legs and sending him falling to the floor.

"First rule, young Luke," Ben said with a mischievous grin. "Never assume anything about your opponent."

Skywalker was still bewildered as Ben's free hand helped him up from the sand. He knew just how slowly the hermit wandered around in the desert, the hobbling movement that seemed so withered and painful. He had to wonder just how much of old Ben was as weak as he had let on – and how strong must he truly be under the façade. "My mistake," Luke admitted, brushing off the mixture of sand and dirt that clung to his back.

"Again."

The two men sparred with their sticks, old Ben on the defensive and seemingly in control throughout their entire match while young Luke was aggressive and overwhelmed, though still able to hold himself well and guard off most of the incoming attacks. Their weapons rattled against one another, swiping and pressing against wood, the gentle snapping of twigs being the only sound that surrounded them both. Though exerted, Luke was prepared to stay in this weird blend of his imaginative and real world; Kenobi, however, was not.

"You do well with the sword – stick, I mean, young Luke," Kenobi said as he pressed his club into the sand, grinding the end across the grimy texture. "Unfortunately, I have to be going back to my own home. You live close enough that you can afford to stay around here late but many dangers of Tatooine show their face in my trek back home if I choose to stay too late."

"Oh," Luke said, slumping down as he placed his own stick into the sand. "I guess you're right."

"One more thing before I leave," said Ben, his free hand stroking the fine whiskers of his beard as he studied the youth. "This is just a suggestion that you are free to ignore, of course, but if you truly wish to become the cunning warrior I feel you want to be, I suggest you begin to train with your right hand."

"My right hand? But I'm not-"

"Not as skilled with it as you are with your left? I can tell, Luke, as you come close to dangerously mastering the skilled art of stick-fighting with your left – maybe even more than I would have been at your age. If you were ever to truly face against an opponent, more often than not, he'll be more dominant with his right. By being proficient in both hands, you'll be able to have a hidden advantage and be prepared if anything ever happened to your right," to which Ben's face turned somber, a sickened look taking over his face. "Which has a far more startling chance of happening than one might think."

Luke nodded and grabbed the weapon with his right hand, swinging it lazily in the air.

"Until we meet again, young Luke."

Skywalker smiled back as the mysterious man began his long walk back to seclusion. The boy wondered about the man, his past, where he came from, and why the two of them always seemed to be drawn to one another despite being practically strangers. Still, he thought that the man offered solid advice and took it to heart, beginning his own long journey in becoming adept with his other arm; after all, if he were to become the great guardian that he imagined himself as, he would need whatever advantage he could get.


	3. Familiar Ashes

"Do your chores, Luke."

Those were four words that Skywalker dreaded hearing and he often heard them at least twice a week. He used to be more diligent when he was younger, eager to help out and more impressionable. While he proved troublesome at times, Luke was a kind and gentle boy that bowed to the wishes of his family. Owen appreciated his reverence (which explained how close they were when he was little) and rewarded him often, when they had the necessary funds. He bought him toys, trinkets of scrap that he molded into playing form, and eventually bought him his first speeder. The most distinctive of all those memories, perhaps, was when Owen bought him his first blaster – the first seed into an imaginative youth's brain - something that his uncle soon ended up growing to regret.

He was afraid that, as an ambitious and wistful teenager, his uncle grew to resent his further growing rebellious nature. The little boy that was so eager to please was almost totally gone with the sprouting of blonde fuzz on his upper lip at the age of sixteen; dreams suddenly became possibilities, his imagination a plaything far wider than anyone could comprehend. Luke wanted more – and this thirst deepened a dividing chasm between the two men, as Owen expected that same level of respect and obedience that his nephew had shown throughout the rest of his life.

Luke hated complaining – but he was all the more aware of how often he did it. He would catch himself doing it, bite down on his tongue, and eventually swallow his pride for a little while. His uncle was constantly shutting down incredible opportunities, strangling him in a desperate attempt to shelter him from harm, doing everything he could to try and bring back that proud and eager farmboy.

He hoped that his uncle could understand just how important it was for him to be proud of him. They grew distant in the last few years but Luke still loved his uncle with all his heart, as the father he never knew. Farming was just not who he was as a person and getting trapped to this desert by everything but a physical chain, reminded him of the own grim past of the Skywalker name. He wanted to explore, to make a name for himself outside of just Tatooine, but to the entire universe. That would make him proud. One day; oh, he was totally sure of it. He would come home after an intergalactic battle with the rebels, whom Biggs introduced him to, and Owen would hug him and be so pleased with his accomplishments and happy with the man he would become.

Please, forgive him.

* * *

"You can always talk to me."

Aunt Beru was always the voice of reason within the Lars homestead, often choosing to remain silent for most of the many arguments until she felt she could end them decisively. Their home would not have functioned without her; while his uncle was busy tending to the farm, Beru was the one that was tinkering with the droids well before Luke was capable. She fed her family, kept them clothed, and always made sure that the three of them went to be in peace.

It was Beru that comforted a teary-eyed Luke that had been teased in school, who was faced with the incredibly early realization that he did not have a biological mother or father. He didn't fully understand that until he was about seven or eight – after all, his aunt and uncle took care of him his entire life. They included him in everything that they did and never once treated him otherwise. He was their son, for all intents and purposes, and no one would take that away from him. Skywalker remembered her hand wiping away the tears that stained his cheeks, noticing her own glimmers of mist, as she gave him the tightest hug he had ever received. "You are my nephew by blood," she said firmly. "But you will always be my son in my heart," a phrase that always echoed within his skull and would soon never forget.

Luke remembered the week before when he finished his chores and the suns had set; like every end of the day, he was laying shirtless on his cot, his sweat-drenched tunic bunched up in a ball in the corner of his room, while he waved his model of an Imperial ship into the air with childlike zeal. His aunt entered the room with a loud sigh, her eyes staring at his clothes bundled up unceremoniously, as she shook her head. There weren't any words needed to be said – Luke would bolt up from his seat and spring his tunic up from the floor, combing through any wrinkles that dared blemish the fabric. The tunic was handwoven by Beru, paid for by her, and regularly washed by her once a week.

He never meant to show disrespect – he always had the utmost appreciation for the care and kindness his aunt showed him throughout his entire life, including all of the unspoken work from when he was a baby and toddler. Sometimes his longing caused him to forget about what was there, now, in front of him but Beru always reminded him of how much he still had to care for and cherish. No matter how often he considered leaving then and there, the thought of his kindly aunt, who dedicated much of her life for him, always kept him home.

He hoped she understood that.

* * *

Owen and Beru Lars were dead. Their corpses were nearly unrecognizable in a heap of black ash that devastated the entire Lars homestead, smoke filling the sky ahead of them and bleaching it with decay and sorrow. There wasn't much to say – Luke had arrived too late, only there once their murderers had fled the scene. The youth stood there, ridden with painful shock, his mouth agape as he watched the last remnants of his lineage and childhood disappear from his physical world for good.

There were so many emotions flooding him at once; Luke was unsure whether he should fall down to his knees and sob the greatest cry of his life or to scream the bloodiest and rage-fueled yell imaginable. He watched them, though at this point they weren't much recognizable, still completely still. There was so much pain, so much he still needed to say to the people who raised him. "No," he finally whimpered out in silence as a single tear streamed down his cheek, no one there to wipe it off.

Skywalker decided, then and there, that he was going to make a name for himself. The family farm had been utterly decimated and all the remnants of the Lars-Skywalker family had been purged, even the grave markers in the back were scorched with gunfire. There was little reason for him to stay behind on this planet of death and suffering – but, if he committed himself to his cause, if he left this planet and began to truly make right within the galaxy, there was a chance that he could find some purpose.

Purpose that would make the memory of his aunt and uncle ever so proud of him. Luke remembered the longing question asked by old Ben Kenobi, whom asked for him to join him and embark on a galactic-wide quest and become a Jedi Knight, like he learned his father was. Owen protected him, like a father does to a son, to keep him safe from such a dangerous mission. There was little point in staying safe now – whoever did this to his family would surely come for him now.

He looked down to the lightsaber clipped to his belt, the heavy weight of the weapon nearly pulling it down. That same weight suddenly now began to pull at his own soul, peeling off the protective shell that he had carried for all these years. His right hand grasped the lightsaber firmly; maybe he was not able to protect his family on this day. But there were more families out there, more victims to the Empire whose lives were stolen unceremoniously like his aunt and uncle, and they deserved their justice. With his lightsaber and the skills of a Jedi, there was a chance he could help those people. He could also help the other lost Luke Skywalker's in the galaxy out there.

The youth looked up into the fire and smoke that ruined his childhood home, the blue hues turned grey with each intense stare he made. This was not something he would ever forget – nor an act he could ever forgive – that would stay and become a large part of whom he was shaping to become. Childish innocence burned off his soul as the fire consumed the farm, forging a will of steel into his being. Luke Skywalker _would_ make his aunt and uncle proud – everyone in the galaxy will soon know his name.

And he will not forget them.


End file.
